Kitty Litter
Sunday, December 26, 2004
Lyrics: At Seventeen
The copyright to this song remains with the composer, singer, and publisher. This is not meant in any way as a challenge to the copyright of the owners.
At Seventeen (Janis Ian)
I learned the truth at seventeen:
That love was meant
For beauty queens
And high school girls
With clear-skinned smiles
Who married young,
And then retired
The Valentines I never knew,
The Friday night charades of youth
Were spent on one more beautiful.
At seventeen, I knew the truth
And those of us
With ravaged faces,
Lacking in the social graces,
Desperately remained alone
Inventing lovers on the phone
Who called to say,
“Come dance with me,”
And murmured vague obscenities.
It isn’t all it seems
At seventeen…
A brown-eyed girl
In hand-me-downs
Whose name I never could pronounce
Said, “Pity please the ones that serve;
They only get what they deserve.”
And the rich-relationed hometown queen
Marries into what she needs
With a guarantee of company
And haven for the elderly
Remember, those who win the game
Lose the love they sought to gain
Indebenture’s a quality
Of dubious integrity
The small-town eyes
Will gape at you
In all surprise, when payment due
Exceeds accounts received
At seventeen…
To those of us who knew the pain
Of Valentines that never came,
And those whose names
Were never called
When choosing sides for basketball
It was long ago and far away
The world was younger than today
And dreams were all they gave for free
To ugly duckling girls like me
We all played the game
And when we dared
To cheat ourselves at solitaire
Inventing lovers on the phone
Repenting other lives unknown
They call, and say,
“Come dance with me,”
And murmur vague obscenities
At ugly girls like me
At seventeen
At Seventeen (Janis Ian)
I learned the truth at seventeen:
That love was meant
For beauty queens
And high school girls
With clear-skinned smiles
Who married young,
And then retired
The Valentines I never knew,
The Friday night charades of youth
Were spent on one more beautiful.
At seventeen, I knew the truth
And those of us
With ravaged faces,
Lacking in the social graces,
Desperately remained alone
Inventing lovers on the phone
Who called to say,
“Come dance with me,”
And murmured vague obscenities.
It isn’t all it seems
At seventeen…
A brown-eyed girl
In hand-me-downs
Whose name I never could pronounce
Said, “Pity please the ones that serve;
They only get what they deserve.”
And the rich-relationed hometown queen
Marries into what she needs
With a guarantee of company
And haven for the elderly
Remember, those who win the game
Lose the love they sought to gain
Indebenture’s a quality
Of dubious integrity
The small-town eyes
Will gape at you
In all surprise, when payment due
Exceeds accounts received
At seventeen…
To those of us who knew the pain
Of Valentines that never came,
And those whose names
Were never called
When choosing sides for basketball
It was long ago and far away
The world was younger than today
And dreams were all they gave for free
To ugly duckling girls like me
We all played the game
And when we dared
To cheat ourselves at solitaire
Inventing lovers on the phone
Repenting other lives unknown
They call, and say,
“Come dance with me,”
And murmur vague obscenities
At ugly girls like me
At seventeen
Wednesday, December 15, 2004
The Summer That Turned Into Ice: Hatori
I like watching Furuba anime episodes over and over, because they delight me and cheer me up. But there are episodes which I skip because they are too painful to watch.
It’s taken me a long time to write about this because I also don’t want to remember. But, as Momiji says, even our most painful memories make us stronger. We write to make sense of the world, and if memories are part of who we are, then I must write about this episode of my life in order to come to terms with it.
Episodes 7 and 8 feature Hatori, and it is very difficult for me to watch these episodes. I once knew someone like Hatori, and felt something special for him; only, I was too young to understand what it was that I felt.
-o-
I was eighteen, and he was nineteen. We were both in college; I wanted to become a writer (like Gure-san!), and he was on his way to becoming a doctor. I’ll call him “Hatori.”
I met him when I was set up with a good friend of his. His friend—let’s call him Ayame—cheerfully moved aside when he discovered that “Hatori” and I liked each other. True to his namesake, Ayame went on his merry way and encouraged my relationship with “Hatori” by urging “Hatori” to call me and see me.
“Hatori” was proverbially tall, dark, and handsome; he was also mysterious, stern, and remote. The manga drawing of the real Hatori does not come close, but the anime rendering! … The first time I saw Hatori in the anime, I lost my breath. Trim his hair a bit and darken his skin, and you’d have my “Hatori.” That’s why, for a long time, I refused to watch the rest of the episodes in which the real Hatori appeared, or if I needed to see them, I would forward quickly once I saw Hatori.
He pursued me with such passion that I found it funny. I was a pretty silly girl, and was more interested in clothes and the idea of romance instead of the idea of actually working to keep a romance alive.
In order to get close, he tried to join the organization I was applying for; failing that, he took to seeing me after my Spanish classes each day. We would walk, and talk, and one of my greatest joys was hearing him sing. I still remember the first lines he ever sang to me. I asked him who he sang like, and he told me, “Rick Astley, and I’ll prove it to you.” “Hatori” then sang the first lines of “Cry For Help”: “She’s taking my time/Convince me she’s fine/But when she leaves/I’m not so sure/It’s always the same/She’s playing her game/And when she goes/I feel to blame…” And I’ve never heard any other man sing to me that beautifully. I regret that I was never able to sing with him.
Then he gave me a copy of his poems, something he had never done before.
He told me that I should be a little more serious and a little less silly. I laughed this off, and told him to live a little. We would talk on the phone until the sun peeked over the horizon; we had so many stories to tell, so many things to share.
Then, just like in the anime, the dream ended.
I think “Hatori” got tired of my laughter and silliness. He wanted a deeper, more committed relationship; I was still hung up over my ex-boyfriend. “Hatori” tried his best to get my mind off my ex, and when he got tired of the subtle approach, he asked me to marry him.
“Marry you?!?” I laughed, thinking it was a joke.
“Why are you laughing?” he responded.
“I’m eighteen, and you’re nineteen. Why, you intend to go to med school. I sure as heck am not going to work to send you through school,” I replied jokingly.
“Hatori” sat silently, then asked me, “Do you love me?”
I giggled, and asked, again, if he were serious. He made no reply, only staring at me quietly, waiting for a response.
When I couldn’t stand the pressure anymore, I blurted out, “I’m too young!”
“For the last time…and after this, I will never ask you again,” “Hatori” said. “Do you love me? Because you already know how I feel about you.”
It only occurred to me much later that he did not tell me, specifically, that he loved me. He wanted me to say it first. I think he didn’t want to take a chance on something that would never be.
But at that moment, my response was to laugh, and remind him that we’d known each other barely a month.
He was silent for a long time. After several minutes, he stood up, turned to me, and said, “So this is goodbye.”
“See you tomorrow!” I waved cheerfully.
That was the last time I ever saw him face-to-face. Though I would pass him in school corridors, he never again acknowledged my existence…save once.
The real Hatori in the anime erases memories. So could my “Hatori”…except the memories he seemed to have erased were only his memories of me. He became like the bitterest cold in winter; when I called his house a week later to ask why I hadn’t seen him all week, he told me that he didn’t hang around with silly writers. I admit I reacted badly, and tried to defend myself; he hung up on me. That summer turned into ice as he refused to take my calls after that last call.
Ayame, being the good guy he is, tried to get us to talk the spring before our graduation from college—two years after the incident. He felt that there was still hope, as he’d noticed something. I had an early class in that particular building, and every morning, as I ran up the stairs, “Hatori” would be sitting there, ostensibly studying. I could feel his eyes on me, but whenever I looked straight at him, his gaze would shift somewhere else.
Ayame found this ridiculous, as their organization had benches which were usually vacant that early in the morning. In addition, “Hatori’s” classes didn’t start until after lunch. Thus, Ayame felt there was still something there. “It would be sad to see such a nice beginning go to waste,” he told me. “So I’m gonna go talk to him, then I’ll get him to talk to you. That day, “Hatori” was on the third floor of the building, and Ayame had told me to wait on the first.
It didn’t take me long to understand how angry “Hatori” was with me. His beautiful voice floated down the stairs, and he was screaming at Ayame. “Shut up! Shut up! I don’t EVER want to talk about HER EVER again, and you will NOT bring her up AGAIN!”
Ayame came back down the stairs. He knew I’d heard everything, and he was trying to look for something nice to say. I tried to save him by saying, “Well, I guess I won’t have to climb all those stairs now,” in a cheerful way. Or so I thought. Ayame looked at me pityingly, then he held my hand. “I’m so sorry,” was all he could say.
Five years later, on the brink of a new relationship, I saw “Hatori” for the last time. I was at a big mall, and I was, as usual, laughing with a friend. My current boyfriend was not yet my boyfriend then, but he was with my friends.
I felt a familiar gaze, but didn’t dare turn around immediately. I’d imagined that gaze so often that I sometimes would turn around, and no one would be there.
But this time, when I turned around, there he was, handsome in his doctor’s uniform, looking straight at me. When he saw me looking at him, his gaze didn’t waver. Yet he never smiled. He looked at me for a while, then turned around and left.
Regret does nothing for us; Tohru once said that. We should never regret meeting people, or regret the memories we have. But there is one kind of regret that is difficult to let go of, and that is when you know that you threw away something that could have been beautiful.
I did learn something from “Hatori” though. I learned to tell people how I felt, and to appreciate what they do for me. It isn’t easy, but when I remember the summer that turned into ice, I remember the lessons I learned.
It does no good to think of the what-might-have-been; I love someone else now, and, nearly ten years after our time, Ayame told me that “Hatori” had fallen in love with someone else.
I only hope that I’ve learned enough from my sad ending to know how to find my way to a happy ending with the one I love now.
It’s taken me a long time to write about this because I also don’t want to remember. But, as Momiji says, even our most painful memories make us stronger. We write to make sense of the world, and if memories are part of who we are, then I must write about this episode of my life in order to come to terms with it.
Episodes 7 and 8 feature Hatori, and it is very difficult for me to watch these episodes. I once knew someone like Hatori, and felt something special for him; only, I was too young to understand what it was that I felt.
-o-
I was eighteen, and he was nineteen. We were both in college; I wanted to become a writer (like Gure-san!), and he was on his way to becoming a doctor. I’ll call him “Hatori.”
I met him when I was set up with a good friend of his. His friend—let’s call him Ayame—cheerfully moved aside when he discovered that “Hatori” and I liked each other. True to his namesake, Ayame went on his merry way and encouraged my relationship with “Hatori” by urging “Hatori” to call me and see me.
“Hatori” was proverbially tall, dark, and handsome; he was also mysterious, stern, and remote. The manga drawing of the real Hatori does not come close, but the anime rendering! … The first time I saw Hatori in the anime, I lost my breath. Trim his hair a bit and darken his skin, and you’d have my “Hatori.” That’s why, for a long time, I refused to watch the rest of the episodes in which the real Hatori appeared, or if I needed to see them, I would forward quickly once I saw Hatori.
He pursued me with such passion that I found it funny. I was a pretty silly girl, and was more interested in clothes and the idea of romance instead of the idea of actually working to keep a romance alive.
In order to get close, he tried to join the organization I was applying for; failing that, he took to seeing me after my Spanish classes each day. We would walk, and talk, and one of my greatest joys was hearing him sing. I still remember the first lines he ever sang to me. I asked him who he sang like, and he told me, “Rick Astley, and I’ll prove it to you.” “Hatori” then sang the first lines of “Cry For Help”: “She’s taking my time/Convince me she’s fine/But when she leaves/I’m not so sure/It’s always the same/She’s playing her game/And when she goes/I feel to blame…” And I’ve never heard any other man sing to me that beautifully. I regret that I was never able to sing with him.
Then he gave me a copy of his poems, something he had never done before.
He told me that I should be a little more serious and a little less silly. I laughed this off, and told him to live a little. We would talk on the phone until the sun peeked over the horizon; we had so many stories to tell, so many things to share.
Then, just like in the anime, the dream ended.
I think “Hatori” got tired of my laughter and silliness. He wanted a deeper, more committed relationship; I was still hung up over my ex-boyfriend. “Hatori” tried his best to get my mind off my ex, and when he got tired of the subtle approach, he asked me to marry him.
“Marry you?!?” I laughed, thinking it was a joke.
“Why are you laughing?” he responded.
“I’m eighteen, and you’re nineteen. Why, you intend to go to med school. I sure as heck am not going to work to send you through school,” I replied jokingly.
“Hatori” sat silently, then asked me, “Do you love me?”
I giggled, and asked, again, if he were serious. He made no reply, only staring at me quietly, waiting for a response.
When I couldn’t stand the pressure anymore, I blurted out, “I’m too young!”
“For the last time…and after this, I will never ask you again,” “Hatori” said. “Do you love me? Because you already know how I feel about you.”
It only occurred to me much later that he did not tell me, specifically, that he loved me. He wanted me to say it first. I think he didn’t want to take a chance on something that would never be.
But at that moment, my response was to laugh, and remind him that we’d known each other barely a month.
He was silent for a long time. After several minutes, he stood up, turned to me, and said, “So this is goodbye.”
“See you tomorrow!” I waved cheerfully.
That was the last time I ever saw him face-to-face. Though I would pass him in school corridors, he never again acknowledged my existence…save once.
The real Hatori in the anime erases memories. So could my “Hatori”…except the memories he seemed to have erased were only his memories of me. He became like the bitterest cold in winter; when I called his house a week later to ask why I hadn’t seen him all week, he told me that he didn’t hang around with silly writers. I admit I reacted badly, and tried to defend myself; he hung up on me. That summer turned into ice as he refused to take my calls after that last call.
Ayame, being the good guy he is, tried to get us to talk the spring before our graduation from college—two years after the incident. He felt that there was still hope, as he’d noticed something. I had an early class in that particular building, and every morning, as I ran up the stairs, “Hatori” would be sitting there, ostensibly studying. I could feel his eyes on me, but whenever I looked straight at him, his gaze would shift somewhere else.
Ayame found this ridiculous, as their organization had benches which were usually vacant that early in the morning. In addition, “Hatori’s” classes didn’t start until after lunch. Thus, Ayame felt there was still something there. “It would be sad to see such a nice beginning go to waste,” he told me. “So I’m gonna go talk to him, then I’ll get him to talk to you. That day, “Hatori” was on the third floor of the building, and Ayame had told me to wait on the first.
It didn’t take me long to understand how angry “Hatori” was with me. His beautiful voice floated down the stairs, and he was screaming at Ayame. “Shut up! Shut up! I don’t EVER want to talk about HER EVER again, and you will NOT bring her up AGAIN!”
Ayame came back down the stairs. He knew I’d heard everything, and he was trying to look for something nice to say. I tried to save him by saying, “Well, I guess I won’t have to climb all those stairs now,” in a cheerful way. Or so I thought. Ayame looked at me pityingly, then he held my hand. “I’m so sorry,” was all he could say.
Five years later, on the brink of a new relationship, I saw “Hatori” for the last time. I was at a big mall, and I was, as usual, laughing with a friend. My current boyfriend was not yet my boyfriend then, but he was with my friends.
I felt a familiar gaze, but didn’t dare turn around immediately. I’d imagined that gaze so often that I sometimes would turn around, and no one would be there.
But this time, when I turned around, there he was, handsome in his doctor’s uniform, looking straight at me. When he saw me looking at him, his gaze didn’t waver. Yet he never smiled. He looked at me for a while, then turned around and left.
Regret does nothing for us; Tohru once said that. We should never regret meeting people, or regret the memories we have. But there is one kind of regret that is difficult to let go of, and that is when you know that you threw away something that could have been beautiful.
I did learn something from “Hatori” though. I learned to tell people how I felt, and to appreciate what they do for me. It isn’t easy, but when I remember the summer that turned into ice, I remember the lessons I learned.
It does no good to think of the what-might-have-been; I love someone else now, and, nearly ten years after our time, Ayame told me that “Hatori” had fallen in love with someone else.
I only hope that I’ve learned enough from my sad ending to know how to find my way to a happy ending with the one I love now.
Monday, December 13, 2004
Psychic Vampires
I am in hell.
If it weren't for Ginny, who's worked so hard on the damned Faculty Follies thing, and the fact that Dean Almario and our chair Ma'am Arambulo have gamely joined in, I would take Polar Bearball's advice in the last post and quit, then sue UP for the bullshit they're putting us through.
Saturday was the last straw for me. We were supposed to rehearse as a college. Hats off to the Art Studies Department (I've always thought they were the smartest and most dignified of us in CAL, and now I am convinced of this). They sent in a video for the stupid show.
I spent several hours being yelled at by a bunch of theater arts majors who obviously think they're on equal par with faculty members. "People listeeen! Hoy people!" They would stand in front, arms akimbo, as though they were directing a bunch of retards. I detest it when these people, acting as though we ought to be good and glad that they were "helping us"--no one asked, and certainly not me--finish the production for the stupid show.
I've always cordially detested the lot of them; they're only nice when they ask for prerogs or when they want us to require our students to watch plays. I can count on the fingers of one hand the faculty members I like in that department; the rest appear to be arrogant dicks who like fighting and wasting our time during college meetings.
I have a question for them. If no one required people to watch their plays, would they have a department? Sure, I know several plays are worthy of watching, and I've seen quite a few. But forcing people to watch is not a good way to promote theater. I am willing to bet my entire savings that, given a choice, the average Pinoy would prefer to see "BCUZ OF U" instead of a play with no-name actors and actresses.
The good theater majors whom I knew were true artists and were dedicated to their craft have gone on to other things. The ones left behind are just all chutzpah and little talent, as far as I can tell. Plus, I am evilly delighted to know that these people, when they try to make it in showbiz, often wind up being supporting cast to the likes of Sandara Park. I overheard one actress who finished theater in UP--who appears on TV every now and then--whining to a friend that all she did at a certain big TV network was play maid or mom to "no-talent" Star Circle winners.
I have no idea whether she sees the irony in that.
Personally, I think I prefer "no-talents" like Rufa Mae Quinto and the Sexbomb Girls to a majority of UP's snotty little theater kids. The former are so much more fun.
If it weren't for Ginny, who's worked so hard on the damned Faculty Follies thing, and the fact that Dean Almario and our chair Ma'am Arambulo have gamely joined in, I would take Polar Bearball's advice in the last post and quit, then sue UP for the bullshit they're putting us through.
Saturday was the last straw for me. We were supposed to rehearse as a college. Hats off to the Art Studies Department (I've always thought they were the smartest and most dignified of us in CAL, and now I am convinced of this). They sent in a video for the stupid show.
I spent several hours being yelled at by a bunch of theater arts majors who obviously think they're on equal par with faculty members. "People listeeen! Hoy people!" They would stand in front, arms akimbo, as though they were directing a bunch of retards. I detest it when these people, acting as though we ought to be good and glad that they were "helping us"--no one asked, and certainly not me--finish the production for the stupid show.
I've always cordially detested the lot of them; they're only nice when they ask for prerogs or when they want us to require our students to watch plays. I can count on the fingers of one hand the faculty members I like in that department; the rest appear to be arrogant dicks who like fighting and wasting our time during college meetings.
I have a question for them. If no one required people to watch their plays, would they have a department? Sure, I know several plays are worthy of watching, and I've seen quite a few. But forcing people to watch is not a good way to promote theater. I am willing to bet my entire savings that, given a choice, the average Pinoy would prefer to see "BCUZ OF U" instead of a play with no-name actors and actresses.
The good theater majors whom I knew were true artists and were dedicated to their craft have gone on to other things. The ones left behind are just all chutzpah and little talent, as far as I can tell. Plus, I am evilly delighted to know that these people, when they try to make it in showbiz, often wind up being supporting cast to the likes of Sandara Park. I overheard one actress who finished theater in UP--who appears on TV every now and then--whining to a friend that all she did at a certain big TV network was play maid or mom to "no-talent" Star Circle winners.
I have no idea whether she sees the irony in that.
Personally, I think I prefer "no-talents" like Rufa Mae Quinto and the Sexbomb Girls to a majority of UP's snotty little theater kids. The former are so much more fun.
Thursday, December 09, 2004
Humiliation Is Just Another Service We Offer
When I signed up to teach, I signed up to...teach.
Little did I know what was in store for me today. We have an annual Faculty Follies show, where faculty members get to humiliate themselves "for the benefit of the college," and by the grace of God, I've never been roped into it.
Until now.
We have this heinous show, some kind of beauty/talent/pageant show as part of the program, and I was initally tapped to be one of the fat, bored judges on the sidelines. My role consisted of waving a wand around and yelling the occasional "Avada Kedavra." Think overweight Professor McGonagall. Now that wasn't so bad, and to show I wasn't a bad sport, I bought a cute cheap wand from Greenhills over the weekend.
Then today I was informed that I'd been bumped up to hostess. As in Jolina Magdangal wannabe. When I explained that I was at least twice the girl's size, I discovered I'd been promoted when the original "actress" simply opted not to show up during the last three rehearsals.
Thinking of doing the same, I tried to stall by showing up late and scheduling consultations. My department chair personally called me and dragged me over to the rehearsal venues. I was forced to leave a sign instructing my students to go to the rehearsal venue.
I was told to find something "sexy" to wear. I wonder if a tablecloth with holes in it for eyes counts. I am mortified, since I required my classes to attend the stupid thing. In the spirit of instantaneous damage control, I texted every student I had, telling them to screw attending the thing. I made up their schedule and seatwork assignments in record time.
But it doesn't change the fact that I am going to be on stage 50% of the time, and I have to act like I'm Jolina. Worse, I have to mouth a script I am completely unable to memorize, and I know I will have to find a way to cheat and put my dialogue on cue cards.
Somebody down there hates me.
And no, I am not posting the date, time, and venue here. I would rather laugh at the thing after the fact than have one of my perverse, gleeful friends show up and laugh his or her fool head off.
To quote Frank of Liberty Meadows: Somebody kill me now.
Little did I know what was in store for me today. We have an annual Faculty Follies show, where faculty members get to humiliate themselves "for the benefit of the college," and by the grace of God, I've never been roped into it.
Until now.
We have this heinous show, some kind of beauty/talent/pageant show as part of the program, and I was initally tapped to be one of the fat, bored judges on the sidelines. My role consisted of waving a wand around and yelling the occasional "Avada Kedavra." Think overweight Professor McGonagall. Now that wasn't so bad, and to show I wasn't a bad sport, I bought a cute cheap wand from Greenhills over the weekend.
Then today I was informed that I'd been bumped up to hostess. As in Jolina Magdangal wannabe. When I explained that I was at least twice the girl's size, I discovered I'd been promoted when the original "actress" simply opted not to show up during the last three rehearsals.
Thinking of doing the same, I tried to stall by showing up late and scheduling consultations. My department chair personally called me and dragged me over to the rehearsal venues. I was forced to leave a sign instructing my students to go to the rehearsal venue.
I was told to find something "sexy" to wear. I wonder if a tablecloth with holes in it for eyes counts. I am mortified, since I required my classes to attend the stupid thing. In the spirit of instantaneous damage control, I texted every student I had, telling them to screw attending the thing. I made up their schedule and seatwork assignments in record time.
But it doesn't change the fact that I am going to be on stage 50% of the time, and I have to act like I'm Jolina. Worse, I have to mouth a script I am completely unable to memorize, and I know I will have to find a way to cheat and put my dialogue on cue cards.
Somebody down there hates me.
And no, I am not posting the date, time, and venue here. I would rather laugh at the thing after the fact than have one of my perverse, gleeful friends show up and laugh his or her fool head off.
To quote Frank of Liberty Meadows: Somebody kill me now.
Who Says Science Isn't Fun?
Just had to share this link with you guys. Drinkers of vodka unite! I'm not a drinking girl myself (rum and Coke knocks me out. Pathetic.) but this just begs for circulation.
Now if only the science teachers could take a clue from these guys. Who says lab work has to be boring Bunsen burner busting?
Am texting (and this is on its way to becoming a legitimate English word, no thanks to American Idol and us Pinoys) my friends to see who's interested in lab work this weekend. ^_^
Now if only the science teachers could take a clue from these guys. Who says lab work has to be boring Bunsen burner busting?
Am texting (and this is on its way to becoming a legitimate English word, no thanks to American Idol and us Pinoys) my friends to see who's interested in lab work this weekend. ^_^
Tuesday, December 07, 2004
Mostly True Stories
(Been having trouble posting; my new computer appears to be assuming everything online is harmful and it keeps me from loading pages properly. Ah well.)
These should be urban legends, except they happen to be true...as far as I know. The title comes from one of my favorite books, "Mostly True Confessions: Looking for Love in the 80s" by Jean Gonick. She was writing Sex and the City stuff when Candace Bushnell was still in high school ^_^
* Names are obviously pseudonyms.
All That Glitters
It was Ella's* first time to ride a jeep, as her car was coded. Thinking she would be an Independent Woman, now that she was a newlywed, she boarded a jeep headed near her posh Makati village.
It was also Ella's* first time to be held up in a jeep. She'd heard many horror stories from her friends and underlings, so she kept her head down and handed over her wallet and cell phone. They're not worth my life, she thought, and silently thanked her husband for insisting that she leave most of her credit cards and ATM cards at home. But taking off her only jewelry--her platinum and diamond eternity wedding band and her platinum engagement ring, were harder. She handed them over nonetheless, praying she wouldn't be hurt. Together, they cost almost half a million pesos, and she mentally berated herself for not taking them off before boarding the jeep.
To her surprise, the robber nearest her returned her wallet, sans the cash. He did the same for the other passengers, and claimed that he was merely "stealing from the rich to feed the poor." He also smiled as each piece of gold jewelry was handed over to him quietly by the other passengers. But when he received Ella's jewelry, he frowned, then flung the rings back at her.
"Hoy, hindi ako tumatanggap ng silver at pwet ng baso!" (I don't accept silver and glass bottoms!) he yelled, before fleeing with his companions.
